Memory Games
by eXit1
Summary: This story revolves around a hero from the now defunct Ultraverse, Warstrike. This story answers the questions of where he went after Godwheel, as Brandon battles to remeber his past.
1. Hold onto a star

_Mantra, Boneyard, Shelby, blind faith,   
Lord Pumpkin and Giz   
are owned by Marvel Comics. _

* * *

Somewhere in the mountains of Napal  
8:30 am October 10th 1999 

Wind whistles over the velvet blankets of deep snow, covering the mountainsides separating Tibet and Napal. Amongst the rugged weather, of the bitter cold a lone figure sits in the traditional garb of the Tibetian monks. His head is bowed his eyes closed. The large man seems not to be the least bit worried about the weather. Maybe his nanotech healing factor is working, most likely that isn't it though. You see this man is or was a Ultra-hero for hire, he was called WarStrike. Though for the last two years Brandon Tark has resided here in the mountains of Napal. 

At one point Brandon Tark was one of the richest Ultra's around, he may still be, though he doesn't care much about money anymore. Brandon gave all that stuff up. After the whole God Wheel crisis, his whole outlook on life changed. I guess after seeing, yourself slaughter thousands of innocents, your thought process isn't going to remain unchanged. So he gave up, he had no desire to continue fighting for morals that seemed unbeatable. As Warstrike, Brandon fashioned himself as a hero, but what kind of hero, asks for money upfront. Brandon hasn't thought about those days for a long time. Brandon has since, found he can help people with his born ultra ability, his own sight into the future, not the one he bought, to make killing people easier. Though now for some reason, Brandon isn't on the wire, and yet he is seeing parts of the past, though he's not around anything that would give him the ability to do so, no Brandon, is thinking about his own past. 

* * *

I really hate thinking about those days, my days as Warstrike. I mean sure I still hunger for the thrill, of my life slipping out from under me, but why did I end up just becoming part of the thing I was fighting against. It's my friggin adrenline. It seems I was cursed all the way around. What kind of man is born with increased adrenline production, and this seeing into the future stuff? I'll tell you who good ole me. It's kind weird really, I wasn't always this crazed lunitic. When I was a kid, I was good natured, I never even stepped on an ant. Though with puberty came, my uncontrollable rage. Like natural steroids, is what I got. I got really muscular really fast. Lucky I didn't get all that back hair, and acne. It was nice at first, all these girls all over me. Though thinking back, at that time I wasn't called an ultra, just abnormal. I was just born a little different. I mean kids are always born separating them, now us abnormal humans are classified with the freaks that blast energy beams out their eyes, and gigantic monsters who can fly, and turn into thirteen year old boys. Lucky I found this place when I did. I can't even remember the last time I got pissed at somebody. Though I must say those early days as WarStrike sure were fun. Though I was a whole different person, all angry at the world, but totally taking the wrong stance against it. Most of the jobs I took got me more and more pissed off. I was a totally dark and depressed guy during that time, it was only the jobs I took that let me forget who I was, cause as Warstrike, I could be who I wanted to be. I forgot to focus on myself, now finally, I'm coming back into terms as Brandon, at last Warstrike is put to rest, and Brandon Tark, for once is content. 

* * *

Banks International  
5:00pm October 7th 1999 

Nestled in the Buisness District in South Los Angeles, no buildings ever standout from one another, a building is a building, worked together like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. In this rabble of concrete and glass, one building does stand out, to those who know what goes inside. Nicholas Banks, stares out the window, of this building. His thick black hair combed straight back, in a fashion that has long been forgotten, by everyone but politicians. Though Nicholas is a rich man, with his soft blue eyes peering out of the wire frame glasses affixed to his perfectly round face. The Tan skin that covers up the bones and flesh, seems almost to smooth, some would call him beautiful, just not to his face. Nicholas turns to the table behind him. The large oak wood rectangle, that stretches from wall to wall. The nine men and women who are seated around the tables dark shiny finish, represent ninety percent of a crime family that has made it's home in LA for six generations. Though for the last few years the Assembly has fallen on bad times, they credit most of the losses due to the ever increasing number of Ultras presenting themselves to the public. Nicholas takes a deep breath of air, scanning each face amongst the table. 

"I thank you all for coming out here today." As Nicholas speaks, his voice is cold and callous, his tenor voice seems almost devoid of all emotions. "I have spoken to you all individually about the problem we are facing in this, some call the era of the Ultra. I'm sure there is not a single on of you here who has not felt the grasp of them. I have been informed by a handful of you, that you even have ultras in your family. This does not strike me as in error in anyway. How else to beat fire, but with fire?" A few claps ring out between those seated. "If the ultras serve the prime directive, than why not use them. Though we are faced with a bigger threat, than the apperance of ultras, it's the high and mighty ultra heroes we must worry about. Though no need to worry, with a little help this problem, will very well be dealt with. I know of a weapon, that will have any ultra lapping at your shoes like a wounded dog." 

A thin woman stands up, her blonde hair pulled up in a bun, a long wisp stringing down her cheek. Her name is Andrea Dilbert, a name not normally associated with a woman of her attributes. "Excuse me Mr. Banks." Her soft voice, gets authority. Everyone present has heard stories of her dealings, and to fear her, is an understatement. "Though how can a weapon, a single weapon be guaranted to do the trick, on say Prime, who has survived Nuculear bombs without so much as a scratch?" 

"A very good question, from a very Beautiful woman." Nicholas smiles abruptly at her. "It will be much better if I show you when the said weapon is in my possession, which it isn't at the present." 

"Then why did you ask us to be here?" An older man asks, interrupting Nicholas' speech. His dark eyes deeply enlayed in his wrinkled flesh. 

"Well Mr. Stein, I wanted all of us in on the entire operation. From start to finish." 

"What is this plan of yours, Mr. Banks?" Mr. Stein interrupts again. 

"Well stage one, is the apprehension of the ultra known as Warstrike." 

"Isn't he dead?" Andrea Dilbert asks. 

"Not yet Mrs. Dilbert, not yet." 

* * *

Sometimes I wonder about the people I left, when I walked away from life. The people I cared about, the ones who meant so much to me. Even though I regret sometimes about leaving, my company and my friends, I had to. Being Warstrike was like a drug. I often think about Shelby, Giz, and even those villains who'd rather see me dead, like Boneyard, Lord Pumpkin, and Blind Faith. Mantra now that's a name I haven't thought about for a long time. Maybe someday I'll see her again. 

It's funny when I get like this and all these memories come around me, I think about holding a large gun point blank in someone's face, and pulling the trigger. It's trivial really. All the deaths caused at my hands should have gotten me into jail quick, I don't understand, how I could have done such monsterous things. The thrill once again. I had to have the thrill, and like a junkie, I want it, I want it so bad. Then thoughts come back to Minsy. Minsy was a little girl I all but helped kill. The thought of how a man could kill a little girl, and blame it on a man already dead, is beyond me. Though it didn't take me long to get over that one. 

Then there is the nanotech healing factor inside of me. I don't know why I'd spend half of my forchune on a small computer, that was supposed to save my life, and I only wanted it to work some of the time. You see I bought the technology from a small company called Woo-parts. Woo-parts were known for their faulty technology. No need for that stuff now though, no need for anything but nature. 

* * *

Bank international  
Southern Los Angeles  
7:30pm October 7th 1999 

Nicholas Banks sits his office, thirty stories above the corner of Washington and Carver. Nicholas watches the small words form across the screen of his laptop, as his fingers tap away at the keyboard. "It's amazing, is it not, Mrs. Hershell?" Nicholas calls out to his secretary, who has been watching him on and off for the last half hour. Debbie Hershell was payed a healthy sum of money earlier this week, to keep tabs on her boss. Though like most the employees of Banks International, she didn't know what she was getting herself into. Everyone who is legally employed by Nicholas Banks, work for a finacial firm, that works around the globe. So when Debbie Hershell was asked by Mr. Stein, to keep tabs on Mr. Banks for him, she had no idea thirty-two hours later she would be dead. 

"Excuse me Mr. Banks?" She calls back to him, her soft voice sounds stressed, the waves cracking in her throat. 

"Oh I was just commenting on the wonders of technology." Nicholas responds to her. "You see the same technology I'm using to iron out this deal in Russia, could have been used for your own finanicial gain as well, but we all know neither you nor Mr. Stein, possess… shall we say dynamite intellect." 

"I don't think I quite follow you sir." 

"No need to worry Mrs. Hershell you will soon enough." Nicholas looks back over to his screen, pauses and types a few words. Grinning he reaches into the pocket, inside his blazer, then fishes out his cell phone. Folding open the small plastic casing in his hand, he presses seven digits, letting it ring as he bringings the phone to his ear. 

---Hello?--- 

"Ted, hi this is Mr. Banks, how are ya doin kid?" 

---Oh, hi Mr. Banks I'm fine. You doing okay?--- 

"Yes Ted I'm doing just fine. But I do have a favor to ask." 

---What kinda favor, if it's my power to grant it I will.- 

"Bring yourself and two of your boys round to my office tonight." 

---Yes sir, I'll be there.--- 

"Good, I'll see you later then." Nicholas hangs up the phone and smiles at himself. 

* * *

Its odd sometimes thinking about how memories work especially mine, I have memories that are not mine, or have been given to me as a plea for help. One that sometimes gets me infuriated with what I did as Warstrike, when touching the skulls of the dead, I get to see the pain. 

It's when I see things like this that it makes me hate myself. I remember about two and a half years ago, when looking for little Mitsy. I was in South America, Rain pouring down from the heavens like a large storm was brewing. I was on the trail of a ghost his name was Snowden. I was pointed out a much used path, through a jungle. The man whose name I can't seem to remember smiled as he adjusted the sunglasses around his large face. "your chasing a ghost", the man said this so calm, I didn't really calculate it as much. 

I followed this trail deep into a jungle somewhere in South America, it was here I met a man with more nobility than I thought was allowed in this day in age. Quixote, was this mans name. His Torso seemed to completely made from metal. I wasn't sure if it was well designed armor or if he really was a borg. The mans large frame, and long blond hair looked a lot like I did back then. Quixote wasn't exactly the brightest star in the sky, but he had more wisdom then I did at the time. The knight as he fashioned himself as, had a purpose. Though it was Quixote that brought me to Snowden, now a corpse. Though it was when I touched the now fleshless skull that the answers to my quest were answered. When I reemerged from the straw hut, the villagers all looked at me. Their dark eyes, all watched my unnormally heathy body emerge from the shack of straw and wood. I looked at them all, the dying women, who's bronze flesh shined an unnatural glow, I knew they hadn't eaten in days. Though instead of sending Giz for some food, I did something worse. I took Snowden's Skull in my hand and kicked it. That was it. I brought the villagers to tears practicly, as I jumped on Quixote's iron flying horse, and flew back to the my helicopter. Yeah I was a real ultra hero. 

* * *

Brandon Tark's Mansion   
Beverly Hills, Los Angeles   
October 7th 10:36 pm 

"We cannot sell the company GIZ!" Shelby screams, Giz slowly puts the wrench on the table of his underground lab and slowly turns to the brunette woman towering a full foot over him. 

"Shelby, the company is going down and quick. We've tried everything to retain a place in the market, Tark enterprises just isn't working any longer, not sense Brandon disappeared." 

Shelby ran her hand through the free flowing hair that fell passed her shoulders. "I told Brandon to get out of the hero business, the Exiles where no good, it just made his problem worse." 

"Come now Shelby we shouldn't keep thinking about the old. Brandon's gone, they found the Strike Costume reduced to ashes over a year and a half ago, yet we you still believe he's coming back." 

"Damn it Giz, we've seen Brandon take on more than a bon-fire and walk out with just a few bruises." 

"Well Shelby, I think we should stop this focusing on Brandon, and instead prepare for the buyers for tomorrow evening." 

"I will do no such thing. Tark Enterprises is far from dead, but your right I should quit focusing so much on Brandon, and remember I am the C.E.O. it's my fault this company is falling to the pits." 

* * *

Somewhere in the mountains of Nepal   
10:45 am October 10th 1999 

The helicopters look like small smudges in the sky from where the man once called Warstrike sits now. Though his training in with the monks have showed him how to look beyond the frailties of the human condition. The sounds broke Brandon Tark's meditation as soon as they got fifteen hundred yards away. The tight eyes opened quickly as Brandon's head turned up towards the skies. "They found me." Were the only words that came from his lips as he stood up in the snow, the white ice curving through his bare feet. The voices comes as a click maybe to warn him of danger, Brandon hadn't felt fear or anything but a peace of mind since the monks found him wandering the mountain side of this land. Though now once again Brandon felt it, felt what it meant to be hunted like the animals did. 

Brandon darted off quickly as the helicopters neared still barely over the horizon, as he ran he saw the outcome of his venture, there wasn't one. With no place to hide what would happen. On one avenue he met death, the other capture. Unfortunately for the men who wanted him, he wasn't going out today, maybe he could explain to them what the Exiles were and that they didn't hurt anything. It was the law right? 

Wrong. The Bullets began shattering the ice behind Brandon as he yelled. "Stop Warstrike." Sounded the voices from the helicopters. Warstrike, he hadn't been called that in some time. "We won't kill you, we have orders to bring you back to Los Angeles. 

"To Hell with your friggin' orders!" Brandon screamed back at the helicopters winging a rock towards the copters now hovering a few feet above him. A shot hit him in the arm; another well-placed bullet hits his leg. The Woo-parts were not working right now, might have been the in operation combined with the cold temperature that made the nanotech unoperational. As Brandon falls to the cold ice, he feels another bullet biting into his back. As his eyes close he sees the pictures in his head again, one of Shein-li Lang the head of the temple. The old Chinese man said something to Brandon, but all he heard before he blacked out was. 

"You have started your journey to the oneness your path has but one outcome." 

"Warstrike." Brandon muttered as he lost consciousness. The helicopters landed a few feet from where Brandon laid, as a few men jumped from one of the helicopters. One of the men kneeled beside the fallen hero and took his pulse. 

"He's fine Captain, seems his healing factor has kicked in." 

"Good Doctor seems the companies will be very pleased." 


	2. Always a hero

_ Shelby and Giz   
are owned by Marvel Comics. _

* * *

            200,000 ft above the Pacific Ocean

12:45pm

My eyes stay shut, but I am very much awake.  I have instead been hollow of my surroundings with what I was taught in Nepal.  They use to call me WarStrike, but that's a history I wish I could forget.  Before I fell to the snow, now almost eight hours ago I saw shein-li Lang before me in my head.  Lang's words convinced me that maybe what I did was wrong in the past, as WarStrike, but his words was maybe a way to reinvent myself.  I was conscious now, I was at a point a living weapon, and they had me in close vicinity with them.  The men handcuffed me, but little else.  These guys were not brain surgeons.

I listened as the men spoke my fingers sliding over the metal lock over the chain links to figure exactly how to strike.  I listened to the voices three men were in the cockpit area, five surrounding me.  As I thought about the situation at hand the two sides of my mind constantly battled one another.  On one side of the coin I knew that I should not hurt another man no matter what injustices have inspired me.  On the other hand they have spilled blood of others, not just me.  I waited though; the time was not at hand yet.  This I knew.

* * *

The Pilot looked to the copilot with a sheepish grin as the helicopter dives down a few feet to dodge an updraft.  The Copilot smiled back patting the pilots shoulder.  "Good job Caleb," The Copilot smiled relaxing in her seat as the wind sifted over the glass window of the Helicopter.  

--How's everything going in there, blue Falcon?--The radio spoke in.

The Co-pilot lifted the speaker to her curled lips and softly spoke back.  "He's fine… If that's what you mean."

The man on the other side of the radio made a gulping sound as he heard the voice that sounded like silk over the PA.

--Cool beans, Blue Falcon.--

The Guard on Brandon's right, shifted in his seat, as he looked to the blond haired captive, sitting with his legs crossed his eyes closed, the long wisps of blond hair flowing over his chiseled face.  "Hey Schmidt he don't look like much does he?"

The Guard on the left looked over at the captive a moment as well.  "Well McDonald, ever seen this guy in action?"

"Nope can't say I've ever even heard of him."

"It's a good thing too."  Brandon spoke silently.

"Your awake?"  The guard on the left said his pale face fading a pink flush.

"Calm down there, McDonald."  Brandon said again in his hushed tone.

"How the #%@& did you know my name?"

From the cockpit an ebony head poked from behind the curtain, his shaved head casting reflections from the onboard lights.  "What the hells going on back here?"  What the general saw next made the lump in his throat deepen.  A well-placed foot on both Schmidt and McDonald's kneecaps caused a sick pop as Brandon lunged upward to a standing position.  The movement was so fast that all, The General saw a blur of Brandon's legs and him rising from his seat.  Without a moments thought the general pulled his pistol from his side, and fired a shot at the now standing Brandon.  Another quick movement darted the handcuffed hands of Brandon in front of the bullet, on impact it broke the chain of the cuffs.  Brandon then turned to the other guards who had just locked out their much larger guns.

"You all should have left well enough alone."  Brandon sneered, at the general and the guards.

"You are wanted, WarStrike."

            "I'm aware."  Brandon said back to the general.

            The general rubbed at his raven black moustache with his free hand, "If you escape where can you go?  You will never be safe."

            "How touching boyo, but I doubt you can offer me safety."  Brandon grunted as he pivoted to his back, sending an arm into the nose of the soldier who was sneaking behind him.  As the fleshy knuckle of the ultra met the cartilage of the soldier's nose, a jet of blood streamed out over Brandon's hand.  The soldier crashes to the floor, as Brandon looks back to the general.  "Now that my points been made," Brandon pushes the soldier and General to the side as he walks to the hatch.  Turning back to the two watching him, Brandon lifted the hatch escape latch of the helicopter.

            The general still very pissed thought about his predicament, and unable to do much else, looked to Brandon as he bent down to his left.  Picking up a pack tilted against the wall, he threw it at the Ultra hero.  Brandon's reflexes were dynamite but as his eyes flicked he brought a hand up to the pack grabbing it.  Though as he moved his weight to the pack, Brandon caught a soldier running at him in a blur.  Catching Brandon's stomach with the Soldier's shoulder, Brandon was smashed into the open latch.  The door lifted open.  Brandon tried to grab a hold of the now swinging door with his free hand but missed.

            The General slowly looked to the open door as a smile glided across his face.  "Collins, shut the hatch."  The Soldier went without much more that a word to the door, closing it tightly, "For I have a call to make."

            Brandon could feel the wind easing about him as his body darted towards the ground.  Not having too much time to react, Brandon quickly pulled the parachutes straps around his arms.  The Blue eyes looked to the ground coming closer to him.  Without hesitation, Brandon pulled the release rope on the parachute.  "I'm sure I'll be seeing you all again soon."  Brandon whispers, as the parachute caught hold of the wind currents slowing the ultra's decent.

* * *

            Brandon Tark's Mansion

Beverly Hills, Los Angeles

           11:30pm, October 7th

            The night had came slowly now, as Giz, sat in the living room sipping on some hot tea leafing through the newspaper.   The solo light emitting from the ceiling did little to luminate the large room.  Sitting back in the large tanned sofa Giz pulled the cup from his lips.  Giz had no idea what he'd do about tomorrow, in roughly six hours the board members from ERK were going to come and look at Tark Enterprises, how was he going to let them know the C.E.O was not going to allow a buy out.  Though not even halfway through his thought process Shelby walked into the room.  Gently sliding his eyes up from his periodical a smile came to the man's face.  Adjusting his glasses he scanned the woman's body.  

            Shelby let a smile curl up to her red painted lips, as the spiral red curls spilled over her face.  "Hey Giz, what are you still doing up?"

            "Not much just thinking ya know?"

            "Oh, I get it, mind some company?"

            "No it's fine, take a seat."

            "Is three a crowd?"  A strangely familiar voice said, as Brandon walked into the room, snapping together the last part of the gun-bracelet to his arm, the ultra smiled

            "B-b-Brandon?"  Shelby yelled looking to the blonde now standing before them in the original red and blue spandex, he wore when he was WarStrike.

            "Yeah it's me alright."  Brandon nodded as he stepped into the center of the room.  "My vacation got interrupted by some strange international guns for hire.  So I guess that means I'm back in business."

            "Vacation?"  Giz stressed, "Brandon, everyone thought you were dead."

            "Yeah I suppose so.  Guess that means I'll need a mask, to go along with this get-up, I am not gonna make any mistakes this time around."

            "Your not planning on going back in as WarStrike are you Brandon?  I mean you just got home."

            "Well I figure I should find out who was gunning after me, then try to put the Strike business behind me.  Maybe make up a clone story.  Giz, think you could help me there?"

            "Whoa, Whoa, Whoa Brandon."  Giz said flinging his arms about.  "You come marching in here, after you were missing for two years and begin acting like nothing has happened?  I mean where do you get off?  Glad to see you old friend."

            "Thanks, Giz.  Shelby please would you hear me out first?"

            "Sure Brandon I'm listening."

* * *

Banks International

New York City

6:45pm, October 7th

"Damn it, what the heck do you mean, he got away?"  Banks yells into the intercom, imbedded in his desk.  Above his desk, the comm. Screen shows the general, fidgeting a little, the reception is flawed with flickers in the video signal.

--Sir, it wasn't our fault.  I mean it is Strike were talking about, the living weapon as you called him?--

            "Look general where is he."

            --Are indicators presume he would be heading towards his home in Los Angeles.--

            "Good, send your men there, I'll be send out another division there, keep him confined there but don't act until I give the word."

            --Yes sir.--

            Bank's turned the communicator relay off as he pulled himself from his desk.  Rubbing at his face, Banks was not happy, how would he keep his people happy waiting for product to be delivered.  Tark was a businessman just as he was, maybe he should think about how he'd act in a situation that Tark was placed in.    Walking back through the hall of his office building, Bank's adjusted the glasses to his face.  The Janitors were still busy flocking about the clean up chores.

            "Hello mister Banks."  One of the janitors said to him adjusting his denim colored hat towards Nick.

            "Hey Bucky."  Banks says as he pulled open the door to the boardroom.  The air inside was not a happy one, Banks needed to pull this back in his favor.  Such things were not easy.

            "We've got some good news, and some bad news."  Banks began as he walked to the head of the table.

            The group about the desk muttered not a distilled sound as the eyes flicked up to Banks.  Those around the table were leaders to the most powerful crime families in the United States.  Banks slowly walked to the chair at the head of the blackened wood table.  A sift of cotton squeaked into the soundless room as Banks slipped into the chair.  Leaning forward abit the thin blond woman, who lead most of the crime on the east coast of the United States, cleared her throat.  Like the others in the room Andrea Dilbert, had been waiting patiently for the last few hours, but her time was quickly evaporating.  Andrea had gotten a call on her cell phone a little earlier in the meeting.  Problems were arising in a facility of hers in Chicago.  "Are we to be kept in suspense, Mr. Banks?"  Andrea's voice called out falling through the room like a smooth comb of honey.

            "Of course not my dear."  Banks announced as he let his index finger press into the button on the table, in front of him.  Mechanical generators roar to life in sequence as the white colored wall behind Banks slipped upward to present a large TV.  As the screen activates it slowly fades into a large red and white bricked house.  "As it has turned out my friends, our target Mr. Tark has escaped our chariot to bring him to our facilities.  So instead we have to try the field test of the weapon first."  The other board members would see a blush come to Banks' face.  "It seems Tark, has returned to his home."

            "Banks, isn't that the tad bit dangerous?  I'm mean won't the local law enforcement agencies be called."  Came a new voice to the mix.  The Thin red headed man who sat back in the corner almost completely in solitude was Marcus Ray; his somber attitude is what gave him his name.

            "That has been taken care of already Mr. Ray.  The Los Angeles Police Department will not pose a problem."

* * *

Above the Los Angeles skies

11:50pm

The four helicopters hover like a fleet of metallic boulders above Los Angeles.  The Blue painted vessels had been hovering above the city for the last few hours.  Inside the movement was as still.  The men and women seated in the helicopters were given the message to go ahead and begin organizing the ground troops and began setting up as soon as they saw the four armed trucks move from the warehouse located off second street.  

            Finally rising from his copilot seat, the General removed the head set from his shaven head as he strode back into the bowels of the helicopters he manned.  "Attention up, everyone."  The general announced with a smile on his face.  "McDonald, you are staying back.  The leg injury will prevent you from helping any of the pursuits.  The Rest of you will be taking the right wing of the Tark mansion.  So equip up boys and girls.  Lets catch ourselves a Ultra hero."

            The six soldiers all rose from their seats.  The crews were all still all black and blue still from the escape earlier today.  Neither the soldiers nor the General had any idea that they would still be here this late into the day.  Walking in one line over to the far wall, the soldiers each grabbed a gun as well as a parachute pack from the wall.  Slipping the guns over their shoulders and the packs to their backs they returned their gaze to the General.

            "What are you waiting for soldiers, MOVE!"

* * *

Brandon Tark's Mansion

12:02am

            "So I had no choice.  I could not risk the lives of you two or my business, I had to run.  Now I have to clear this up so finally we can get back to our normal lives."  Brandon told Giz and Shelby as he looked over to them.

            "Brandon, and you think the Terrorist group is coming here now?"  Giz finally asked Brandon, looking to his friend with that same look or trust.

            "I'd say so Giz.  So we will need to get ready."

            "Ready?"  Shelby exclaimed.  "Yeah lets take on a whole flaming army!  How do you expect to do this again?  I may have missed something."

            "We can do it Shelby, as a team.  Just keep an eye out on the security cameras, why Giz and I prepare.  I assume if they are not already here they will be very shortly."

            Shelby doesn't mutter a word as she looks away from the two men.  Shelby's lips almost curled at what Brandon, was saying, but deep down she supported them.  They really didn't have a choice this time.  Right?

* * *

Outside Brandon Tark's Mansion

Los Angeles, California

October 8th 12:30am

Heavy military boots clump to the ground from the sky, silently unlocking the m-16s they carry at their chests.  Others parry over electrified fences, in quick pole volts.  The Soldiers do as they are ordered through the headsets they wear under their helmets and masks.  Three separate teams organized by different colors, and different frequency channels.  The first of three teams is the Red Team.  The twenty or so men and women in this team are commanded to set up along the roof of the mansion.  Armed with Grapple hooks they find this task not to difficult.  The Second team they call the Blue team.  This team is by far the largest of the three teams taking on the mission.  Team Blue's objective is to line around the actual building, at any sign of struggle on a blue members line of sight he or she must go in firing.  Finally the Silver team is set up.  The Silver team is lined up in the bushes.  Fifteen members in all, it is this teams job to ready the special weapon, and apprehend the Subject, we know him as WarStrike.

            A line of shadow darts over a woman wearing a red body suit.  Bracing herself against the wall of the roof, she watches silently through the sky light, as the woman Shelby sits alone in the living room.  The Silver team is working on the security cameras as she sits there monitoring the screen.  The Plan as fed through the red teams speakers are as followed As soon as the security cameras are disengaged engage.

* * *

The Cave

Los Angeles, California

October 8th 12:32am

Five hundred or so feet under Brandon's mansion, The Cave sits.  The Mansion was built originally built two miles from a series of Canyons, completely hidden from the urban world above the streets.  After originally becoming WarStrike, Brandon had this place built connecting to a hidden panel in the right wing.  The Cave is actually a system of Caverns, which furnish most of what WarStrike is.  The First of the three Canyons is the Hanger.  The Hanger is where the Warlike as well as most of the other Vehicles WarStrike uses.  The Second is a laboratory that rarely gets used these days, and the third.  Well the third is where Giz and Brandon now stand.

            Giz calls it Guns are us.  The Third Cavern is a technical center, where guns as well as armor and most of what makes WarStrike, well WarStrike.  Giz takes a red and black spandex cloth from the wall, and slowly hands it to Brandon.  Brandon looks quickly away from the security monitors now as the blue eyes look to the scientists' hands.  Slowly, he slides the mask into his hands.

            "As you can see Brandon, that's probably the only Strike mask left in existence.  I altered the look of it during your absence.  The S over the eye, is now just a black line, and well there's a block of yellow on the other side."

            "Good.  Guess we'll have to go back to Strike."

            "We will figure all the matters out in time."  Giz beams a grin.  "Let's deal with this matter first.  I've installed infrared lenses, made from a flexible plastic."  Turning to the rock table behind him, Giz grabs a new gold colored shoulder pad.  "This is the battery unit as well as the controller.  Not only is there infrared, in the left eye but also a targeting mechanism and a zooming iris."

            "Seems you've been hard at work."

            "Well it's hard not to-" Giz's mouth drops as he returns to the security monitors now fuzzing with white snow.

* * *

            "What is it Giz?"  Brandon asks as his eyes drop to the monitors.  "Looks like we've got company."  Brandon slips the new mask over his face, as he looks to Giz.  Giz is already to the gun rack, figuring out what weapons should be used.  

* * *

Brandon Tark's Mansion

12:40am

            Shards of glass break, smashing into the carpeted floor, as red clothed forms dart from the skylight in smooth precision.  Gunfire echoing off the drywall, as M-16s are activated as the silent army boots clump to the ground.  The seven Red Team members who have entered through the living room stand silent, as one of the red clothed forms step forward, removing her mask.  Shilling the blond hair over her shoulder she looks to the Shelby who's laying on the floor in a fetal position.

            "Now tell me where's Mr. Tark?"  The woman says.  She waits a whole of five seconds before a few rounds cascade through the room.  A masked man walks in a black gun smokes as he holds it up right.

            "Tark asked me to handle it.  Being how I got him into this mess in the first place."

            "Yes, and you WarStrike, are who we want."

            "I'm okay with dying, end this mess with a bang.  That's the recipe, is it not?" 

* * *

_Next issue: the story kicks it up a notch as Strike takes on Mr. Bank's Soldiers and meets the Secret weapon head on! Be here for next Part of "memory games"! _


End file.
